Amanpuri

It's already late when we emerge from the silver Mercedes into boutique resort Amanpuri in Thailand’s Phuket. And, yet, despite the hour, a flock of gracious staff are waiting to greet us with warm, welcoming smiles. Mrs Smith lets out a few appreciative oohs and aahs as we're guided along the floating bamboo-banistered paths that snake up the jungled hillside to our suite. I, meanwhile, can't shake the niggling notion that this is what the Ewok Village would have looked like, had Tyler Brulé got his design-savvy hands on it.

Like a private island in an ocean of verdant greenery, our enormous bungalow – a tall, peaked-roof building with its own outdoor lounge – is closed off from its neighbours by an encircling wall of bamboo. Once inside, my better half – an eternal aesthete to the core – waxes lyrical about the detailing of our room: the explosion of white orchids on the pedestal at the end of our bed; the subtle yet dramatic lighting; the elegantly silhouetted geometric patterns on the sliding doors. I, however, have eyes only for the enormous crisp, cotton sheeted bed, and I’m out like a light.

Chirping morning birdsong draws me from a deep sleep softly back towards consciousness. But it is Mrs Smith's inimitable squeal emanating from our bathroom that makes me finally sit up. Expecting a close call with a local lizard, I reach for a plump red grape from the bedside as my beloved comes dancing back into the room, skipping around the orchids and leaping onto the bed beside me as she draws the whisper of a bathrobe around her shoulders.

‘That is the single most amazing bathroom experience I have ever had,’ she declares with more than a hint of excitement. ‘On my own,’ she adds conspiratorially.

Led by the hand, my first discovery of the morning is a revelation of lavatorial engineering. Thankfully, my masculinity is sufficiently solid to avoid any jealousy towards most machines. Yet, with remote-control front and rear oscillating jet sprays and a temperature-adjustable seat, Samson himself would falter before Mrs Smith's new toy. But, after a lengthy shower à deux, she is sweet enough to assure me that I have nothing to worry about. She also mentions that we shall certainly be getting ‘one of those babies’ as soon as we get home.

A gentle two-minute saunter back through the designer jungle, our second discovery of the day is the slick, Miami-esque pool, which I somehow missed last night. Yet this is brushed away once more, as the hotel falls away behind it into a wide, steep staircase, pierced with towering palm trees, that flows into the most beautiful, private stretch of white sand and clear-blue water that either of us have ever seen.

Our eyes suitably feasted, we decide it's only fair to spread the epicurean love to our bellies. And, so, erring on the side of caution, Mrs Smith and I settle into an hour-long Healthy Option breakfast of egg-white omelettes, revitalising smoothies, jasmine tea and a lavish plate of fruit. While such healthy menus and the serene pace of life clearly attract a repeat following of tanned, toned Yoga types, the hotel, with its huge acreage and unfathomably helpful staff, offers plenty of other choices if you fancy a little more holiday excess.

Down on the private beach – a hawker-free haven, peppered with perhaps a dozen daybeds and a small restaurant tucked away beneath a covering of palms – Mrs Smith toys with joining a cruise on one of the hotel's yachts while I head over to the new gym, replete with qualified personal trainers and a full torture chamber of top-of-the-range Pilates contraptions. Overpowered by the concept of actual effort and the haunting image of Mrs Smith in her new slip of a bikini, I turn on my heels and saunter right back to the waiting beach.

To break up the monotony of such paradise, however, we're eventually wooed from our diligent sun and sea worship to the poolside pavilion for a spot of complimentary Thai tea and cake. There, feet curled beneath us on huge cushions, we get to know a few of Amanpuri's other guests and staff, including our dessert chef, who is overjoyed to have just celebrated her 21st year at the resort –always a good sign in the hotel industry.

Our mini Thai pancakes digesting nicely, and the sun starting to meander towards the horizon, my better half proves her worth once more and hatches a plan. Borrowing some snorkelling gear from the hotel, we swim out to the decked, circular jetty bobbing 150 metres out from shore. There, as a shoal of brightly coloured coral fish swarm beneath us, nibbling at Mrs Smith's dangling toes, we watch the sun descend, setting the sea alight with brazen hues of burnished gold before we swim back, feeling every inch the closing scene of a Bond flick.

All cleaned up, we opt for dinner at the hotel's Thai restaurant rather than its neighbouring Italian counterpart, where we're looked after by our ever-lovely waitress Porn (no, truly), while a trio of local musicians soundtrack the gourmet offerings from the poolside pavilion. Perhaps one might eventually tire of the gorgeous, subtly modern Thai cuisine and curiously inventive desserts that they whip up (how often do you get your ‘vintage balsamic marinated strawberries with raspberry crème brulée’ served with a garnish of ‘air’?), but not yet.

The crickets return to their night song, a thick blanket of stars gleams overhead and Mrs Smith decrees that we more than deserve a little reward. And, so, back at our bungalow, she slips into something that might knowingly be described as ‘a little more comfortable’, and, with a pair of large gin and tonics in hand, we sink into the cushions that surround the sunken wooden table of our gazeboed lounge, the whispered crash of the tide in the distance, and toast our private paradise.